


Vanity Fairgrounds

by louciferish



Series: Rebels and Consorts [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Ballroom Dancing, Drinking, M/M, Portraits, Secret Identity, Victor Nikiforov is Extra, YOI Royalty Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 19:33:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14677953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Still unmarried at twenty-eight, Prince Victor Nikiforov is past his years of being the belle of the ball. All Victor ever wanted was to make a match that would love him for more than his title.So when he attends the debut ball for his little cousin, Yuri, he's certainly not expecting to be swept of his feet by a capable, dark-eyed stranger. There's just one problem with this: Victor doesn't even know the other man's name.





	Vanity Fairgrounds

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Chrome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome) for the quick, last-minute beta check.
> 
> A brief note on country/territory names in this, though I don't use them much- I just took all the names of the nations from the characters' surnames. So, you have the Nikiforovs of Nikiv, the Crispinos of Crispin, etc.

“Victor! Victor, listen to me when I’m speaking to you,” Yakov yells across the paddock. Victor raises his hand, waving casually. He can see the old man’s ears turning red even from the opposite fence.

He urges his horse onward, as if he intends to jump the fence and leave the castle grounds entirely, and the screaming at his back increases in ferocity. Ahead, the hard-packed dirt roads and towering trees beckon him. Adventure and liberty await. 

Instead, he reigns Makka in just a few feet shy of the wooden fences, wheeling around to trot back toward the stable. He strokes the mare’s mane absently as they approach Yakov, taking in the reins until she slows again, stopping just inches from the old man. Victor leans into Makka’s neck, brushing flecks of mud from her dark bay coat with his fingertips. 

Yakov looks like a circus bear with a bald spot in his big fur cloak, and Victor tries to wipe the amusement from his face in favor of a mask of disinterest. “What’s the problem now?” he asks.

“You never listen to me,” Yakov gripes, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s always the problem. And wipe that vacant look off your face when you speak with me. I taught you how to do that; it’s not fooling me.”

Victor grins and dismounts. His feet land neatly inches from Yakov’s toes, but the old man doesn’t so much as flinch. After twenty years employed at the castle, Victor supposes Yakov’s susceptibility to tricks has long-since fled to the same place as his hair.

A groom approaches them on cat’s paws, and Victor passes over Makkachin’s reins, giving her rump a final fond pat as she’s lead off to the stables. “Did you really come interrupt me just to complain I don’t listen?” Victor teases. “You ought to show more gratitude to me for keeping you paid and housed now that I’ve outgrown your tutelage.”

“You’ll need tutoring longer than I’ll be alive to give it to you,” Yakov grumbles, then ducks Victor’s attempt to pat his bald spot. “Your parents want to speak with you when their court session adjourns. His Highness seemed particularly irate that you didn’t attend breakfast in their chambers this morning.”

Victor resists the impulse to scrunch his face up like a child, which will only lead to wrinkles. Instead, he shakes his head, then brushes his hair back where it falls softly into his eyes. “I ate,” he says. “I just didn’t feel like being cooped up indoors all day.” He gestures around at the muddy stable grounds, the low blanket of grey clouds overhead, and the shadowed clumps of snow slowly melting below the bushes. “How could I let all of this beauty go to waste?”

“No skin off my back if you don’t have the sense to come in out of the cold,” Yakov says, shrugging. “I did my job, and now I’m going back to my warm bed to read a book. Then I might even take a nap.”

“Tease,” Victor pouts. “You’re so unfeeling, and I’m practically a son to you.” But Yakov doesn’t even acknowledge him, ambling off toward the garden entrance.

Victor waves a farewell to the stable boys gathered around a small fire pit in the yard, then strolls over to the kitchen entrance. The heavy wooden door groans as he heaves it open. He inhales deeply as the smells of fresh bread and spices come flowing out. It’s not only the most efficient route to his parents’ chambers, but it’s also his favorite. He smiles and winks broadly at the kitchen maids when they turn to see who opened the door, and his grin only widens when they blush and look away.

“Get out of here, you nuisance,” Cook scolds him, swatting at his arm with a towel. She’s a plump mushroom of a woman, with far more bark to her manner than bitterness. “Stop bothering my girls. They’re distracted enough without you waltzing in and out all the time.”

Lurking in the kitchens has been one of Victor’s cherished pastimes since he was a small boy, fleeing his nanny to hide in the cupboards at bathtime. He loves the smells and the flavors and the way Cook has no fear of him at all. It’s tempting to disregard his summons, hop up on the table, and watch Cook labor away over stews and pastries for a few hours, until her round face turns red from both the heat and the attention. 

But he’s too old to be so careless and irresponsible in his duties, so instead he grabs a fresh pear from the bowl out on the counter, gives Cook a swift peck on the cheek just to make her splutter, and trots up the kitchen stairs to the main floor of the palace. 

He bites into the pear with a crisp crunch as he rounds the corner. Lord Christophe stands in the hallway, scanning the stone walls with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a gleam in his eye. Victor tries to duck back around the corner, though he knows he’s been spotted. Chris is too clever by half, but at least Victor can make him work for it a bit.

Christophe appears around the corner shortly. “There you are,” he says, smirking as he pushes the papers against Victor’s chest. “These are for you, regarding the parade. Make whatever selections you wish from the recommendations, sign the dotted lines, and get them back to me as soon as you can.”

“Absolutely,” Victor promises, trying to juggle the pile of papers under his arm without dropping them or soaking the text with pear juice. “What parade?”

Christophe sighs, looking down his nose at Victor, a power move that’s much more effective through the cute little wire spectacles he wears these days. “The parade you promised you’d organize for your cousin’s court debut, _Your Highness_.” The title always sounds mocking coming from Chris, laden with all the history between them, but when doesn’t it sound like a joke to him? “You didn’t forget about Prince Yuri’s birthday, did you?”

“You know I’m no good with these things,” Victor says, shaking his head.

Lord Christophe rubs his hairline as if Victor is damaging his mind, but his smile is fond. “Yuri won’t go easy on you if you forget about this or do a shoddy job. You remember what these things are like when you’re fifteen.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to organize a parade,” Victor mutters. “Why would I remember being fifteen?” 

Christophe sighs, running both hands through his golden curls. “Well, everything is very important when you’re fifteen, Victor, _especially_ things like your birthday parade and your debut ball. If you really don’t care, sign the papers and leave them blank, and I’ll make the choices for you.”

Victor trades his pear to Chris for a fountain pen, then turns and presses the papers up against the wall beside him, adding his signature on the last page with a flourish of the pen. Then he passes the papers back to Christophe and reclaims his pear. “There you go, all signed.”

Lord Christophe squints at the signature line and waves Victor off. “Fine, fine. I have better taste in these things than you anyway, not that Yuri will appreciate that.”

“Just put a tiger in one of the wagons or something,” Victor suggests. “He’ll forgive you anything else if you manage it.”

Christophe tucks the papers back under his arm. His green eyes have regained the mischievous twinkle they always had in boyhood, and he cocks his head at Victor. “Now, will you also tell me who will be filling out your dance card at the big event?”

“Can’t,” Victor says, backing away quickly. “I’m afraid the King calls, and I must answer.”

“Good luck,” Chris calls after him, and Victor wonders if the tinge of amusement in his voice is related to the ball or the royal summons. Either way, no good can come of it.

He finds his way to the throne room otherwise unmolested and tries to slip through the grand double doors silently. Court is still in session, and a petitioner kneels on the steps below the dias with his head bowed. 

As always, Victor finds himself struck by how different his parents look in full regalia, seated on the grand thrones as if it were all they ever meant to do. He knows it must make quite the picture for the commoners and lower lords, seeing their King and Queen all draped in brocade and fur and crowned in gold. For Victor, who has watched as his mother spent hours being layered in fabric and paint for these occasions; who has seen his father roll his neck and shoulders, eyes closed in pain after finally removing the heavy crown, it makes a wholly different sort of impression.

“You have Our thanks,” King Peter says to the kneeling supplicant, inclining his head ever so slightly in dismissal. The sunlight from the high stained glass windows above burnishes the brown of his beard to red. Queen Sophia sits ramrod-straight on the throne to his left, like a statue, barely even blinking. Her silver hair coils in a single snake-like braid along the arm of her seat. Victor considers climbing the steps to take his own place on the smaller throne to his father’s right, but the stables left mud on his boots and damp in his cloak. Besides, court should be wrapping up soon enough.

The petitioner climbs to his feet, bows deeply, and backs away from the dias. The king and queen rise stiffly, constrained by the weight of their formal garments, and then proceed arm in arm down the steps to the carpeted center aisle. The commoners still lining the room kneel on the floor as they pass by. Victor remains standing, but sketches a bow. His father nods in return, but doesn’t smile. It’s not a good omen.

He waits for the double doors to close behind the royal couple before slipping along the wall to an inconspicuous side door. The guardsman on duty recognizes Victor and bows, standing aside to allow him through to the parlor. 

His father is already rubbing at his neck and rolling his head from side to side. The priceless crown that’s been in their line for centuries is tucked under his arm like an old book. His mother stands with her arms out as two maids work in tandem to lift the heavy fur cape from her shoulders and scurry off to pack it away in the cedar chest once again. 

The queen turns and spots Victor at the door. She beckons him closer with a single finger and a winning smile. “Victor, darling, come help your old mother unlace these robes, will you?”

“Of course,” Victor replies without hesitation and steps forward. She turns her back to him, and he carefully picks at the laces holding the heavy brocade garments in place. “Did everything go well with court? I only saw the last few minutes.”

“You’d know if you bothered to show up regularly,” his father mutters. Victor ignores the complaint. In the twelve years since he achieved his majority, he’s attended court _plenty_ of times. With the king and queen both still in good health, his father is the only person who believes Victor should sit in on the sessions every week. 

“A few petty squabbles between some of the minor houses,” his mother says, rolling her shoulders as he finally pulls the last lacing free and her robes fall to the floor. She steps on tiptoe from the pile of fabric and takes a seat in the nearest chair. “A vineyard is claiming a rival loosed goats on their land to sabotage their crop, and one of the young lords petitioned us to bless his engagement.”

“Speaking of engagement,” his father cuts in, and Victor bites back a groan. “You have a portrait sitting scheduled. The painter is waiting in your outer rooms, and has been since breakfast this morning.” Victor wrinkles his nose. 

“Don’t do that with your face, dear,” his mother says, flipping the end of her braid at him. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

King Peter removes his cape just as the maids return from putting the other one away. He hands it off to the two girls, and they immediately vanish again. It takes both of them to carry the garment without dragging the white fur across the floor.“I don’t know why you’re suddenly so set against this portrait,” he says. “I thought you enjoyed coming up with a ludicrous new concept every year.”

“I did. That is, I do,” Victor corrects himself quickly. He clasps his hands as his father takes a chair as well. Now all Victor needs is to kneel on the floor, and he’d feel much like the petitioners at court. 

He’s posed for a portrait each year for twelve years now, and each time the process takes at least a few days. The resulting paintings are unwieldy, detailed things, and hung side-by-side the full series would take up one entire wall of the ballroom. It _had_ been fun at first, thinking up increasingly ridiculous and shocking poses for the artist to portray, but when he first sat for a portrait on his sixteenth birthday, no one had expected Victor would still be on the marriage market at his twenty-eighth birthday.

“Can’t we just skip this year?” Victor asks, the hint of a whine creeping into his tone. “Most of the other houses don’t have all their eligible children sit _every_ year. It’s not as if I’ve changed much between twenty-seven and twenty-eight.”

His mother does not frown, because wrinkles, but she looks down her nose at him in suspicion. “Is this about your hairline again? I swear, darling, you can barely see it. My father didn’t start going fully bald until his forties; you should still have a few years left.”

Victor starts to raise his hand to his forehead, but drops it before it moves past his waist. “No, Mother,” he sighs. There’s no getting out of this. “I’m just being silly, I suppose.”

He presses a fond kiss to the part of his mother’s hair, bows to his father, and then slinks back to his own suite of rooms to accept his fate.

-

When Christophe sweeps into his rooms the next morning, Victor is standing beside the chaise. He tries to look like he’s leaning casually on the arm of the couch, but his back is stiff, and his knees are locked and aching.

“You’ll be pleased to hear everything is in place for the parade next week,” Chris announces, dropping a pile of papers on Victor’s desk. “There’s nothing left for you to worry your pretty head about.”

“You’re the best,” Victor says. He tries to keep his face set for the painter, but his lips twitch upward despite his efforts. “What parade?” 

Chris groans and throws himself down onto the nearest sofa, as if in a faint. “Please,” he says. “You have got to be joking.”

“I am, don’t worry,” Victor says, waving the concern away. The painter pulls a face, and he quickly places his hand back onto the arm of the chaise. “I know I’m a bit forgetful, but I’m not _that_ bad.”

“I should hope not,” Chris says. “And yet, I wouldn’t put it past you. You do like to achieve the remarkable.” He rolls over and cranes his neck along the back of the sofa, checking the progress of the portrait, and hums at the view. 

“What?” Victor asks, reaching up to brush his bangs back from his face. “Does my hair look funny?”

“No,” Chris says, narrowing his eyes at the painting. “It’s just sort of boring, isn’t it? Compared to previous years, you’re going quite traditional here. I liked the year,” he waves his hand. “A couple years ago, the one with the snow and the polar bear?”

Oh, yes. That was a good year. For Victor’s twenty-sixth birthday, he’d dressed entirely in white and posed outdoors, surrounded by the snow. He’d draped himself in a polar bear skin for warmth, and had the artist add in a bear in the background at the end as well. He’d wanted a live bear to pose with him, but his father had put his foot down at that point.

“Well, it’s hard to improve on perfection,” Victor says, crossing his arms. “This year I’ll be surprising everyone by being dull and traditional.” 

Christophe makes that humming sound again, and Victor can tell he’s not convinced. How can he explain how he’s feeling? It seems like it should be easy enough to admit that he’s uninspired this year, but his lack of interest in this portrait is too wrapped up with other things to untangle them all, much less lay them bare for Chris. In the past, these portraits had felt like an opportunity to put a bit of himself out into the world. This year it’s just another painful reminder that Victor is still alone. He scowls at the wall.

“The Queen seems to have already filled out your dance card for the ball,” Chris says, and Victor snaps back out of his own head, turning sharply to Chris and glaring at the growing smirk on his face. “She certainly seems to have a strong opinion on appropriate partners at your _advanced age_. She wouldn’t even allow me to include the birthday boy on the list.”

Victor puts his hands over his face. Traditionally, as the eligible heir to the host nation, Victor would certainly be expected to dance with his cousin. They’d even be considered a good match by many of the older nobles - an opinion a few grannies have certainly made known to him - but his mother has the right idea here. Victor would look the fool waltzing around with a sixteen year old on his arm, and Yura would undoubtedly hate it as well. 

He’d probably stomp on Victor’s toes deliberately.

The painter makes a distressed noise. “Your Highness,” he pleads. “Please do hold still. Do you need to take a break? We could continue later-”

“No,” Victor says, dropping his arms back into the pose and straightening his spine. “This is fine. I won’t waste any more time than I must on this damned portrait.”

Chris stretches out across the sofa, languid and deliberate. “Who knows, maybe you’ll meet some pretty young thing at the ball and never have to sit a portrait like this again. You could have ended them years ago if you weren’t so picky.” He raises his eyebrows. “Some of those suitors were truly lovely.”

“You would know,” Victor quips, watching with satisfaction as Christophe flushes.

Chris also knows perfectly well why Victor has been “picky” for so long. He, too, grew up in the thick of a political marriage, watching as distrust slowly turned to ice and froze out everyone around. Two people can share a home, a bed, and a child, but that doesn’t mean they share a heart. Victor has always wanted something more.

“Not so many suitors flocking to your steps anymore, though,” Chris says, tapping his chin in faux contemplation. “Perhaps I should consider moving in with Yuri. He’ll be stealing all the attention soon enough.”

Victor keeps the rude gesture he wants to react with to himself, for the painter’s sake. But he’s making it in his heart.

-

The damned portrait winds up consuming most of his waking hours for the week, despite his determination to finish it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, he’d severely underestimated how often the decorators and other staff would be intruding on his days, pulling him aside to ask questions about the parade and the ball. He’s really never had an opinion on whether lilacs can go in an arrangement with chrysanthemums, or if it’s uncouth if the birthday cake is taller than the person the cake was made for, but now he’s damned well _dreaming_ of lilacs.

By the time the big day arrives, he’s exhausted from answering questions, posing for his portrait, and giving tours of the guest wing to distant relatives as they arrive for the party. He collapses into bed half-dressed after a night of celebratory feasting and wakes up with his temples throbbing from the wine Uncle Ivan kept pushing on him at dinner.

Groaning, he rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. There’s a quiet knock at the door - probably not the first. He can ignore it. If it’s that important, they can return after he’s slept off this hangover.

The quiet knock stops, only to be replaced with a loud slamming that makes him wince. He pulls the pillow over his head to muffle the noise, but his skull continues to pound in sympathy with the door. He rolls out of bed and stumbles the landing. His eyes are still half-closed, and he keeps hugging the pillow tightly as he shuffles across the cold stone floor and unlatches the door. He pulls it open and glares through the narrow gap into his sitting room.

“What are you waking me for?” Victor snaps at the maid. “It’s too early for anything to be important.”

Christophe steps out from behind the door, forcing it open wider. His cheeks are pink, but he does not look pleased. “Too _early_?” he asks loudly, and Victor winces again at the sound. “It’s nearly mid-day. You slept through the entire parade - the parade _you_ were meant to be hosting.”

Victor pulls the pillow up over his face. Can someone smother themselves? If so, he should get it over with now, before his father catches up to him.

Someone yanks the pillow out of his hands and then smacks him in the face with it. He looks up, expecting to see Chris, but then has to look down instead, into the burning green eyes of his furious little cousin. 

Yura lifts the pillow high over his head and smacks Victor with it again. “What the hell?” he shouts. Victor backs away, but Yura pursues him, wielding the pillow like a mace. “What is wrong with you?”

Victor backs up until his knees press against a piece of furniture. He drops onto the couch, but that only gives Yura better leverage to rain down blows. It’s not painful, but it’s quickly becoming annoying. He reaches up between hits and catches his cousin by the wrist, halting the pillow mid-whack. 

“Was the parade not fun?” he asks, coolly. “Was it not big enough for you? Were there not enough flowers for your taste?”

Yura tries to jerk his arm out of Victor’s grasp, but his wiry frame is no match for Victor’s strength. He slowly lowers the pillow, and Victor releases him. 

“You were supposed to be there,” Yura growls. His hair is in disarray from the pillow fight, and he looks like a kitten all puffed up with rage. “Not that _I_ care, but you’re such a damned attention whore normally; everyone noticed you weren’t there. Now all they’ll remember about _my_ coming of age day is that _you_ couldn’t be bothered to turn up.”

Victor lets his head fall back against the back of the sofa. He could throw out a million excuses for what happened, but Yura wouldn’t appreciate any of them. “I’m sorry I missed your parade. I’ll make it up to you later, I promise.”

“You better,” Yura says, crossing his arms. He’s still so slight of frame that even now Victor just sees the cute little four year-old who threw a tantrum when Victor refused to pick him up to dance at his own debut ball.

“All right,” Christophe says, placing a calming hand on Yuri’s shoulder. “I think between the beating and his headache, Victor may have been punished enough. You should start getting ready for the big event, which Victor will _certainly_ be attending.”

Yura shrugs out from under Chris’ touch, ducks past him, and exits, slamming the door in his wake.

Smirking, Chris gestures to the maid still waiting outside. “Go to the kitchens and fetch your Lord a hangover cure, will you?” The girl drops a curtsey, then flees.

“Just kill me,” Victor moans. He falls back onto the sofa and pulls the pillow back over his face. “Save me from the suffering.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chris says, and the next thing Victor hears is the distinctive pop of a bottle being uncorked. He lowers the pillow and watches as his friend pours two healthy servings of wine into a pair of glasses. “A little of this and a hangover cure on top of it? You’ll be ready to party in no time.”

Victor puts the pillow back over his face. Death certainly seems the safer route.

\- 

Credit where credit is due: his mother knows how to throw a party. Victor nods politely to the older nobles who pulled him into their circle of conversation, then goes back to ignoring everything they say, focusing on his glass of champagne. He learned long ago to drink cautiously at parties, as the servants are always circling to refill the glass in case of a toast. It’s all too easy to drink several glasses, oblivious because your cup was never drained.

He glances around the ballroom, watching the swirl of the dancers as they circle the center of the floor. The light of the oil lamps causes the elaborate fabrics and jewelry of the revelers to sparkle with each turn of the room. Victor scans the crowd for familiar faces and spots Christophe off in a far corner of the floor, dancing with a dark-haired man in a deep purple waistcoat. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself.

Victor looks again, then frowns. Where is Yura? It’s his party, but now that Victor thinks back on it, he can’t recall seeing his cousin after the first toast. He cranes his neck, searching for a glimpse of the bright red and black jacket he saw the boy wearing at the start of the festivities.

“Your Highness?” Victor turns back to see the nobles looking at him expectantly. The one who spoke is an Baron, he thinks. Phillip? No, Baron Ferdinand. He’s a real bore. There’s no guessing what he might have been asking Victor about, but asking him to repeat the question would be rude.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says, pasting on his best fake smile as he pulls his dance card from his pocket. “It’s just, I think I see my next dance partner has just become available. If you’ll excuse me?” It’s polite to ask, but he walks away before they can answer.

He into the crowd of dancers. He’s long since thrown out his mother’s list of suggested partners for the night, but he can usually depend on someone wanting to dance with him. Maybe he’ll even be so fortunate as to find a partner that won’t trod on his toes or yammer on about trade the whole time. Victor looks around and immediately locks eyes with a dark-haired man he doesn’t recognize. He stares at Victor like some type of exotic bird. Victor smiles politely at him, but the other man quickly looks away.

Okay, then. Victor mingles further into the crowd, looking for an available partner to keep up his charade. He’s beginning to feel a bit discouraged when someone taps him on the shoulder. Turning, he sees the man who was staring at him before. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s pushed his spectacles up on his head, so his black hair sticks up in every direction. 

“Excuse me,” he asks, gesturing at Victor with his mostly-empty champagne glass. “Would you like to dance?”

Victor smiles down at him and motions to one of the nearby servants to come take their glasses. “Of course,” he says, offering his hand. “Shall I lead?” The stranger nods and carefully slots their hands together. His grip is warm and firm, but he seems startled when Victor places his other hand against his lower back, and Victor groans internally, apologizing to his toes in advance.

Despite that inauspicious start, they step into the waltz in unison, and his toes remain untrod. The musicians are just as marvelous as he would expect from his mother’s taste, and with a willing and capable partner on his arm, Victor quickly finds himself caught up in the thrill of the dance. 

They twirl around the room as one, dazzled by the lights and enraptured by violin. The stranger throws his head back in an unrestrained laugh, and Victor grins until his cheeks ache in return. A waltz becomes a tango and then a traditional folk dance. As the musicians move seamlessly between the songs, so too do the dancers. They pause only briefly before the next waltz to swap out the lead, and then they’re stepping off again, this time with the stranger’s hand like lightning at the base of Victor’s spine.

The room is dizzy and sweltering, soaked in the perfume of guests and the smoke from the oil lamps. Maybe Victor had too much champagne after all, or maybe it’s just been too long since he last danced with anyone so practiced and smooth in their movements, but he’s beginning to feel a little light-headed. 

He’s dazzled by the golden highlights on his partner’s cheekbones and the way their fingers interlace, twining together like lovers reunited. 

He’s distracted by these thoughts as the song draws to a close and his partner abruptly dips him. Victor finds himself wide-eyed, his fingers clutching the other man’s shoulders as he gasps for breath. The stranger is panting too; his face is flushed and his black hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat.

Victor’s partner pulls them back upright. The music has stopped, and Victor cranes his neck past the crowd to find the musicians are packing up for a break. When he turns back, his partner has already loosened the ties to his shirt and is pulling at the fabric, trying to get far cooler air onto his skin.

Victor seizes his hand, tugging him toward the open patio doors. The voices of so many guests, all shouting to be heard over each other, is an assault on his senses. The other man resists at first, but soon capitulates as Victor insistently leads them out into the biting winter chill.

The cold air slaps him across the face, and Victor shivers in response, but compared to the chaos inside, the icy wind is a relief. There are other guests lounging on the balcony, and a few nod to Victor in recognition, but most of them are too preoccupied with conversation, or perhaps a bit more. The chill out here makes a good excuse to stand a little closer to someone else.

Victor takes a deep breath as he releases his partner’s hand, letting the fresh air push the oil lamp smoke from his lungs. When he looks over, the other man has his face raised to the sky, admiring the distant stars. 

“They’re different,” he whispers. Victor hums inquisitively, and the other man jumps as if surprised to find Victor still standing there. “The stars,” he explains. He still looks a bit flushed, but the wind has leached some of the heat from his cheeks. “The stars are all different here.”

Victor blinks in surprise. He’d read once that the stars look different depending on where you are in the world, but as Crown Prince, he’s never traveled far enough to see it himself. 

“Did you have a long journey to get here?” Victor asks, watching the other man’s face for clues to his response.

“Not that far,” he says, looking away. The silence hangs between them like a question as the soft sounds of conversation and laughter drift along in the background.

Victor breaks the awkwardness, faking the breathy laugh he normally uses for dealing with pushy suitors. “Well,” he admits, his candor clashing with the artificial laughter, “I haven’t had so much fun dancing at one of these things in years.” 

The man looks down, but the darkness doesn’t hide his shy smile. “I don’t normally even come to these,” he admits. “But I’m glad I did.”

There’s a lock of hair still stuck to his forehead, out of place. Victor reaches out before he can stop himself, brushing it back from his face. If his touch lingers, it’s only because of what happens next.

The stranger inhales sharply and raises his head. Their eyes lock, and Victor’s fingers find the curve of his chin, tilting the man’s face more toward the light. 

Behind them, a woman laughs loudly, stumbling with her partner toward the doors. Clumsy with drink, she bumps into them as she makes her exit, and Victor has to reach out again, catching his partner by the shoulders to keep him upright. So close, he can smell the sweet and sour tinge of champagne on the other man’s breath. His skin is still flushed and glowing in the dark, and Victor bites his lip. Maybe champagne’s more the culprit here than attraction.

“Don’t move,” Victor says, withdrawing his hands once the other man is back on his feet. He stares at Victor, glassy-eyed, and takes a frantic, gulping breath. “I’m going to get us some water, okay?” Victor waits until the man gives him a small nod of assent, then spins away, cutting across the room where great glass jugs of cold water have been left out for the guests. 

He fills one glass for himself and is reaching for the second when a flash of red and gold captures his attention. He glances up in time to catch just a glimpse of a familiar red and black doublet and pale yellow hair before Yura vanishes once more behind the carved white column. So, that’s where he’s been.

Victor finishes pouring his water, then rounds the table and slips back into the little nook himself. 

Yuri immediately splutters and shoves at him with his bony little shoulder. “What are you doing?” He hisses. “Get out of here; you’re too big.”

It’s a tight squeeze, but Victor just pulls his arms tight against his body and wedges himself more firmly against his little cousin, until finally the boy gives in with a huff, turning to face him. Yura’s clothes are as neat as they were when he made his entrance, and not so much as a wisp of hair has dared to stray from his tight braids, but his sage-green eyes are dewy and reddened at the edges.

“Not enjoying being the center of attention?” Victor guesses, but Yura only shrugs in response. “I’m not a big fan of these things either.”

“Please,” Yura scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’ve been watching you at parties for as long as I can remember.” His cheeks pink slightly as he thinks about what he just said. Lately, Yura hasn’t been wanting to admit how much he followed Victor around when he was little. Victor decides not to press him on it.

“It’s all about playing to your audience,” Victor says instead. He straightens his posture, pastes on a bland smile, and tilts his head ever so slightly, just enough for a few locks of silver to fall over one eye. It’s a move he practiced over and over in the mirror, and he knows precisely how he looks: pleased, attentive, and available.

Yura makes a retching sound, and Victor shakes his head, brushing his hair back into place. “Don’t worry,” he says, patting the boy on the shoulder. “You’ve got time to find what works for you.” 

Yura jerks from Victor’s touch, scowling. “Do I?” he asks, sounding far older than his sixteen years. “How much time do you think I have left?” 

He shoves past Victor, jostling the water glasses. Victor has to juggle them quickly to keep from staining the pink satin of his jacket. He watches Yura’s rapidly retreating back as he darts into the crowd, disappearing among the dancers. 

Yura has a point. It’s foolish to pretend the two of them are on the same path. By the age of ten, Yura had already lost both his parents, one to childbirth and the other to illness. 

Uncle Yuri and Aunt Regina had been a love match, and Victor had always thought you could _see_ that about them in every moment they were together. They had fit together like puzzle pieces, and even the portrait of them with baby Yura that hangs in the castle shows them with fond smiles and gentle hands. Victor had loved them both dearly, and he’d been devastated to lose them. And Yura was still so young then, if King Nikolai hadn’t stepped up, reclaimed his throne as regent despite his abdication, then… Well, he did. Yura was allowed to be a child for a few more years, at least.

But while Victor dances with pretty strangers, twenty-eight and still unmatched, his parents hale and hearty; Yura has only his elderly grandfather standing between him and a swift coronation. It makes sense that tonight, especially, Yura would feel that pressure, but Victor seethes at it. Yura is still a _boy_.

Victor has to take a few deep breaths before he can paste a pleasant smile back over his feelings, then he swans out of the alcove to find his handsome stranger. Getting across the floor with two full drinks is a dance in and of itself. He holds both glasses high as he weaves and twirls between the guests, nodding in acknowledgement to the few that manage to catch his eye along the way.

A few of the younger lords and ladies haven’t learned to watch their drink yet, and they’re quickly becoming loud, sloppy, and difficult to avoid. Victor circles them the best he can, but it’s looking like a good time exit, before they drag him along.

At last finds himself out on the balcony, the crisp night air cutting through his jacket, which was designed more for fashion than comfort. He squints in the low light of a few flickering lamps, but doesn’t see his dance partner waiting. Victor circles the patio again, trying to peer at each face, but many of the guests are paired off, and it would be rude to stare too closely. With each unknown person he passes, he feels his heart sink.

“Looking for your mystery man?” A woman’s voice sings out in the night.

Victor steps closer and finds Lady Sara Crispino standing against the palace wall, the darkness turning the shadow of her hair into a mourning veil across her features. 

“Did you see him?” Victor asks, holding up the water glass to show why he returned. 

“Oh, _everyone_ saw him.” Sara giggles, tucking her long hair behind one ear. “You didn’t think you were being subtle out there, did you? Poor little Yuri, upstaged at his own debut.”

Victor hums as if agreeing with her and tries not to let his frustration seep into his tone as he sets the glasses aside on the marble rail of the balcony. “But did you happen to see where he went?” 

“Some other boy came to get him,” Sara says, frowning to herself. Her half-empty champagne glass lists a bit to the right, and the sight raises Victor’s eyebrows. He doesn’t often see one Crispino without the other, and he certainly doesn’t usually see either of them _sauced_. 

“Do you remember anything about the other boy?” Victor presses, once more.

“Dark skin,” Sara says slowly. “Dark hair. Red jacket.” She shrugs, and her glass tilts dangerously again, until Victor has to reach out, catching her fingers to put it back upright. “Is that what it takes to get your attention?” She asks, breathy and coy.

Before Victor can puzzle out what she means, there’s a loud gasp from the doorway. He turns to see the missing Lord Crispino frozen in horror, his eyes fixed on where Victor’s fingers are clasping Sara’s on the stem of her glass. 

Victor quickly pulls his hand away and takes a step back, watching as color returns to Michele’s cheeks with a vengeance. Lord Crispino stalks across the balcony and takes his sister by the waist, glaring at Victor. “You had your chance,” he snaps at Victor. “Leave Sara alone.”

Victor raises his hands in surrender as Michele guides his wobbly little sister back into the ballroom. Sara leans back over her brother’s shoulder to wave goodbye, and then Victor is left standing alone on the balcony amid empty cups and trampled flowers as the other guests, too, drift inside.

-

Victor wakes the next morning to the sound of the curtains being thrown open. The soft spring sunlight creeps across the sumptuous coverings of his bed and prods at him insistently. He cracks his eyes and levels a baleful stare at the two maids tying back the curtains.

“My apologies, Your Highness,” one of the girls stammers, dropping a curtsey. “M’lord ordered us to do it.”

Victor sits up, propping himself up on his elbows to see Lord Christophe waiting at the foot of his bed, arms folded and lips quirked in amusement. The maids quickly finish their task and flee to the outer chambers. 

“Should I have Cook send up a glass of hangover remedy for you as well?” Chris asks, perching on the foot of Victor’s bed like a great golden cat. “She’s had to brew up quite a batch this morning for the guests who stayed overnight.”

“Please,” Victor scoffs, sliding up to rest against the headboard. The sheets pool in his lap, just shy of indecent. “My years of losing my senses at a sixteen year-old’s birthday party are long past.” 

“Ah, so you have no excuse for what happened, then,” Chris says. “You really set the old biddies’ tongues wagging. The Crown Prince of Nikiv, dancing all night with a single partner, and some no-name from the backwater on top of that.”

Victor lunges forward and seizes his friend’s arm, heedless of how the blankets fall away, exposing him entirely. It’s nothing Chris hasn’t seen before. “‘Some no-name from the backwater’,” he repeats. “Chris, do you know who he was?”

The teasing smile drops off Chris’ lips, replaced by confusion. “No, don’t you?”

“No,” Victor groans and buries his face in his hands, clawing at his scalp. “He left before I could get his name. For all I know he’s the third son of some conniving Royvian merchant house.” 

Victor feels Chris brush the hair back from his face, tucking the longer strands behind his ears. “I don’t think it’s quite so bad as that,” he says quietly. “I didn’t recognize him from where I was, but he did seem familiar. I’m fairly certain I’ve seen a portrait of him somewhere in our archives.”

Victor lifts his head and examines Chris’ expression for signs that he’s being teased again. “Really?”

Chris nods solemnly. “That’s no guarantee he’s not from a merchant house, of course, but at the least he would be an heir in that case.” He peers at Victor’s face closely, still running his fingers through his hair. “Vitya,” he says. It’s the first time he’s used Victor’s boyhood nickname in years. “Are you really that interested in this boy?”

“I’m not certain,” Victor admits, biting his lip. “But I’m curious. He dances so beautifully, Chris.”

“Very well,” Christophe says. He withdraws his hand from Victor’s face and rises from the bed. “I’ll let the King and Queen know that you aren’t feeling well enough for breakfast.” He gestures to Victor’s wardrobe. “Get some clothes on before the maids come in again, and then meet me in the archives. We’ll find your Prince Charming.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Victor says, scrambling off the bed. Chris simply waves his hand dismissively and closes the bedchamber door behind him as he leaves.

-

Victor is in better spirits when he leaves his chambers to meet Chris. He finds himself stepping jauntily in the halls, humming some little tune to himself. The servants sneak sly looks at him as he passes, but he tries to ignore it. Gossip will move swiftly no matter what he does. 

The song in his head brings him back to the dancing last night, calling up echoes of golden lamplight burnishing his dance partner’s features, and the way the other man had laughed as they swayed against one another, pure and enthusiastic in his joy of the moment. Victor has certainly never lacked for willing dance partners, but there was something different about this one. He had moved so gracefully and smiled with no fear. He had stepped up to meet Victor in a way that few could, as an equal. 

In the past, Victor has been underestimated, and he seethed in much the same way Yura does now. With his reputation well-established, Victor more often sees deference and posturing in those he meets, which is equally distasteful. In a sea of sycophants at the party, he’d had no hint of that motive from his partner. But how could the man simply vanish without telling Victor his name?

The question has him scowling once more as he shoulders open the heavy doors to the archive. Chris turns to greet him and gestures to the two large wooden boxes perched on the table. Both of them are filled to overflowing with rolled up portraits sent in the past few years from various royals, noble houses, and wealthy merchants.

“Don’t worry,” Chris says, holding up a green glass bottle. “I brought wine.”

Judging from the stack of scrolls, they’ll be needing it.

-

By the time Victor reaches the bottom of his box, they’ve opened a second bottle and abandoned glasses entirely, swigging the dry red wine straight from the bottle. The table in front of them is littered with half-rolled portraits, a few of which bear new purple spots and wet rings. In the case of some of the portraits, the stains may have done the subject a favor. 

Victor passes the wine back to Chris, and lets his head fall back against the chair. “Nothing,” he groans. “Not a damn one who so much as _slightly_ resembles him, Chris. What am I supposed to do now, just wait around for months hoping he shows up again?” Chris only hums, still examining the last few scrolls in his pile. “What if it’s worse than a merchant? What’s if he’s some common outlaw who snuck in after robbing a guest of their clothes? Chris, _what if he’s already married_?”

Chris sighs and rolls the final scroll back up, then stands and waves at a nearby clerk to come tidy up the chaos around them. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t love an affair with a handsome outlaw,” Chris teases. “Think of how much you’d surprise the court with that one.”

“Not nearly enough,” Victor says, smirking briefly before the disappointment punches him in the chest once more and washes away his amusement. They’ve wasted most of the day, avoiding dinner with the last of the party guests as well as a summons from his parents, only to turn up with nothing. 

“There’s still one possibility,” Chris says, frowning. “But you won’t enjoy it.” 

“What, like I enjoyed this?” Victor snaps, then sighs, rubbing the seed of a headache from his temples. He’s not sure if it’s from the frustration or the wine.

“There are more boxes,” Chris breezes, far too used to Victor’s moods to be bothered by how swiftly they can change. “The clerks come through here periodically and move the oldest portraits we have to a storage area beneath the kitchens. If your boy hasn’t had a new portrait done recently, you might find it down there.”

Victor stands up, his chair screeching as he pushes it back with his knees. “Chris, you’re brilliant,” he announces, and abruptly leans down to peck his friend on the cheek. “Tell my parents not to hold supper for me,” he says, and jogs off toward the kitchens.

If Cook is disturbed at all by seeing him so serious-minded, she doesn’t say a word about it. When he asks, she lights a couple of candles and leads him down the steep, rough-hewn stone steps into the storage cellar. 

It smells of earth, mold, and damp, and the ceiling gets lower as they walk further from the door, until Victor is nearly bent double. Cook frowns back at him, then points to a stack of crates. 

“That’ll be them,” she says, then hesitates. “Why don’t I have some of the stable boys fetch them out for you, Your Highness? It shouldn’t take them too long, and then you can go through them in your room by a lamp, not down here with the spiders and the cheese.”

Victor shoots a nervous glance toward the corners of the room, but if there are any spiders, it’s too dark for him to tell. That’s probably for the best. “No, this is fine,” he says, a bit discomfited by Cook’s sudden use of his title. She makes a strange grumbling noise when he drops to his knees on the dirt floor beside the crates, but drops an awkward half-curtsey and scurries back upstairs.

Victor pulls the first crate closer, sets the candle holder on the ground beside him, and begins unrolling scrolls.

The venture starts out well enough, but by the end of the first crate, Victor has to stop and close his eyes. He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his head against them. If anyone comes to check on him, he can blame the tears on eye strain from the dim light of the candles.

The crate must be the oldest of the three. Many of the portraits he’s recognized have been over a decade old, sent when Victor was Yura’s age and the other royal houses were still eager to align with the rulers of Nikiv through marriage. One by one, Victor has seen the faces in these portraits, read the names on the back, and dug up old memories of bright balls and enchanting visitors.

Some of the beautiful young faces in these scrolls are happily married now, and even have children approaching their own marriageable age; others are dead, ripped from their families by war, disease, or tragedy. It’s a stark reminder for Victor of all the ways in which he’s set apart from his peerage, and the other paths his life might have taken.

With a deep breath, he crosses his legs again and reaches out to drag the second crate closer.

He’s halfway through the second crate when he finds it. This particular scroll is a bit smaller than average, and the painter shows no great skill. The portrait, in three-quarter profile, is a scrawny boy who looks much younger than sixteen, though that’s the youngest he could be. His jet black hair is sloppy, though that might be the work of the artist, and the look on his face is something between awkward and bland. 

Aside from the hair color, nothing about the picture has a strong resemblance to Victor’s mystery man, except for the eyes. The dark brown eyes of the subject are wide and confused, and they catch Victor’s attention immediately. The artist, however inexperienced, showed a true devotion to portraying these eyes. 

He flips the parchment over impatiently and holds the top corner up to the flickering light of the candle.

_His Royal Highness, Prince Yuuri Katsuki  
Sixteen years of age_

Victor’s hand trembles, and the corner of the paper begins to smoke. He quickly snatches it away from the candle, smothering the ember against his shirt. _Prince_ Yuuri, apparently, which is good news, but Katsu? He digs through dim memories of lessons in the nursery, where Yakov expounded for hours on history and trade negotiations. He remembers seeing Katsu on a map - it’s an island nation - but little else, and nothing about their royal family. He can’t recall them ever accepting an invitation.

He clambers to his feet. In his eagerness, he forgets the low ceiling and smacks his head on the stone, but shakes it off and ducks low, racing to get to the door with the portrait still held tight against his chest.

He glances at the windows as he climbs back to the kitchen and sees darkness. Only one serving girl remains in the kitchen, dozing on a table in the corner. A guardswoman looks up at him, caught with her hand in a pickle jar, but he just wags his finger at her and takes the next set of stairs at a jog.

He doesn’t so much as pause for breath between the kitchens and Yakov’s chambers. He knocks quietly, then waits, shifting his weight on his feet and listening closely for any sounds from inside. 

When nothing happens, he makes a fist and pounds at the door harder. “Yakov, please,” he pleads. “ I need your help. Your devoted student has a history question.”

Through the door, Victor hears a clatter, followed by the familiar sound of his tutor quietly cursing. After a moment, the door finally swings open and reveals Yakov, clad in a floral dressing gown, his thin gray hair bristling like a hedgehog. Victor bites his lower lip to distract from the amusement he feels. If he laughs, Yakov will certainly slam the door in his face.

“What history question could you possibly have at this hour?” the old man snaps. “‘Devoted student,’ my ass. If you were so devoted, you’d know the answer yourself.”

Victor thrusts the portrait into Yakov’s face in response. “I need to know everything you can tell me about Katsu and the Katsuki family.”

Yakov’s scowl deepens, but he takes the parchment from Victor’s hand with great care, tilting it to get better light from the oil lamp by his door. “Is this the guy you were dancing with at Yura’s ball? He’s from Katsu?”

“I think so, yes,” Victor says.

Yakov mutters something under his breath, but holds the door open to allow Victor into his chambers. The outer room is sparse as a monk’s cell, with just a simple desk against one wall, a couple bookcases, and a small table with two wooden chairs. 

Victor remembers seeing portraits in this room as a child. There had been more furniture once, and fresh flowers every day, but all of that left when Lilia did. Yakov lights the candle at his desk and sits, so Victor takes a seat at the table to wait while Yakov considers the painting.

Soon, Victor’s tired of sitting. He begins pacing the room in circles, his hands clasped behind his back. Yakov sighs loudly, and Victor stops, wheeling around to face him.

“You put on a better mask these days,” Yakov observes, watching Victor over the rims of his reading glasses. “But you’re really as impulsive as Yura deep inside still. Don’t be in such a hurry to give your heart away to someone you barely know.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Victor counters, gesturing at the room, “To get the information I need before I decide anything. Isn’t that what you taught me to do?”

Yakov’s mouth twists in distaste, but he doesn’t disagree. He stands from the desk and passes the portrait back to Victor. Although he saw it just moments ago, he scans the picture again, committing the boy’s features to memory. The more he looks at it, the more certain he becomes that this is the man he’s searching for.

“Katsu is far from wealthy,” Yakov begins, leaning back against his desk. “Being an island, the main industry and trade is in fishing, so they import more than they export. Their current ruler is Queen Hiroko Katsuki, who is married to Consort Toshiya.”

“Consort,” Victor interrupts, startled. “Does that mean he’s untitled?”

Yakov nods solemnly and continues. “Hiroko was the youngest of three siblings, so she wasn’t expected to take the throne. She married young, but for love, not politics. Although Toshiya wasn’t noble, it was still considered a good match because his father owned several ships.” He pauses, frowning to himself. “There was a minor scandal, but it wasn’t due to the marriage. Hiroko’s elder sister died rather suddenly. There were rumors it was related to some mental defect and questions related to the fitness of the family to rule because of past incidents.”

“Then an illness struck the island, and it took both the King and the Crown Prince. Queen Hiroko was crowned at only eighteen years of age.” Yakov folds his arms over his chest and looks up at the ceiling. Victor recognizes that look, a sign that his old teacher is doing some type of calculations in his head. “Queen Hiroko’s heir is a woman named Mari. She’s still unmarried, though she’s about your age. This Yuuri must be a younger brother.”

Victor taps his chin. “A second son, then, or maybe a third? Second would be ideal.”

Yakov’s eyes narrow as looks directly at Victor again. “Theoretically, yes, but Katsu is far from the best political alliance you could make, and we know next to nothing about the boy.”

“Still,” Victor says, waving off the objection. “You can’t say it’s a _bad_ match.”

“I also can’t say it’s a good one,” Yakov grumbles. He stands and walks over to thump Victor soundly on the chest with his finger. “Don’t make any rash decisions. Give me a few weeks at least to find out something more. I can write to some of my friends about it and see what they say. I remember hearing that Katsu was hiring for a foreign tutor when you were younger; one of them may have even taught the boy.”

“Thank you, Yakov.” Victor begins to grin, and the old man starts to back away, but before he can escape Victor catches him up in a tight hug, rubbing affectionately at his bald spot. Yakov grumbles and squirms, but doesn’t work hard enough to break free before Victor releases him. 

Yakov quickly smooths his hair down and gently shoves Victor toward the door. “Now get out of here and go to bed. I need my beauty sleep!” 

He closes the door in Victor’s face before he can remark on that.

-

The next morning, King Peter and Queen Sophia Nikiforov rise with the dawn as usual. They take their time getting ready for the day, standing in silence before the mirror as Peter carefully combs the tangles from his wife’s long hair. 

With this ritual completed, they put on their dressing gowns, exchange a single soft kiss, and open the door to their outer chambers for breakfast.

They both stop in the doorway at the sight that awaits them. Victor sits at the breakfast table already, bouncing his leg as he sips at a cup of tea. He’s dressed, but the buttons on his vest are misaligned, and there’s a cowlick sticking out from his normally-coiffed hair. 

“Good morning,” he says, looking up from his tea with an enthusiastic grin. “It seems I’m going to need to borrow a ship.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come at me, bro](http://louciferish.tumblr.com/)


End file.
